Bloody Lucky
by smallsteps32
Summary: In a world where Martin Crieff chose not to be a man-with-a-van, and instead became a hit-man, his hardest job to date was Douglas Richardson. It would have been an easy job, really, had Douglas not been rather handsome... and wearing a pilot's uniform


**Alright, so this is an AU, and nothing you recognise is mine.**

**Now that's over - welcome. I did not intend to write something this big in two days. Really, I wouldn't recommend it. My hands are aching. However, I saw a list of fun AU scenarios and this one caught my imagination.**

**I hope you lovely people like it, and I'll thank you in advance for reading. Let me know what you think. : )**

* * *

In the early dawn, as the morning light struggled to filter through the dust that he hadn't scrubbed from the attic's sloping windows, Martin _again_ refreshed the page. The computer was almost ten years old, and not really meant for online banking, but he needed to know that the payment had gone through before he took action. It was half now, half when the job was done – for the sake of his conscience, he wouldn't move until he was sure that he was only doing it to earn a living wage.

It was a shame, really, but the way Martin saw it he didn't have much of a choice; it was a job that he had taken up when he was low on cash, studying for his PPL and CPL, and high on practical skills. For a short while, he had thought that he had escaped the need for quick cash, but alas... his stint at a cheap, low-grade airline hadn't lasted more than two months before he was dropped. At least this was reliable, fairly high paying, and, well... there was never a shortage of petty individuals who wanted to bump someone off but didn't want to do it themselves.

In steps the hit-man.

Sighing, rapping his nails against the desk in the corner, Martin refreshed the page. Nothing yet. First, the payment would come through, and then he would look at the name that had been texted in the late hours of the night. Bitterly, Martin mused that other assassins, better assassins, probably had a better system.

Not that he wasn't a _proper_ assassin; let nobody say that Martin Crieff didn't do his job, _any_ job, to the best of his abilities. No questions asked, no judgement, and no mistakes... that the client knew of. In all fairness, they got what they paid for. By killer's standards, Martin was cheap – he didn't do big jobs, just small ones fuelled by childish grudges – little phone calls by people that never had the guts to even show their faces.

Still, it kept him financially secure. Martin could afford an attic room, a run-down car to travel around in – his Dad's van was too conspicuous – and occasionally even a nice take away dinner.

For that, Martin could swallow his guilt and get on with things.

Dropping his head back so hard that his skull clunked against the back of his chair, Martin tapped the refresh button again. He barely spared the screen a glance – but _there_. The payment had gone through – enough to cover two month's rate, and more to come when the job was done.

With a half-smile, Martin launched himself to his feet and retrieved his phone. The light was still flashing, informing him that he had a message from an unknown caller. The address would be easy enough to find. Whoever it was wouldn't see it coming. Whatever they had done, they wouldn't be doing it for much longer.

Martin glanced down at his phone.

_Douglas Richardson._

Douglas... Of course, Martin recalled. The client, a reedy sort of voice on the end of the line, had whinged at length about some smuggler, or traveller, or something like that; no doubt a business deal gone wrong.

There was work to be done, Martin thought, as he rubbed his hands together. There was more to his job than simply finding and killing the man. There was research, tracking, observation – there wasn't a rule book, but there should have been, and if he wouldn't have been at risk of arrest, Martin would have written it himself. He had a long day ahead of him.

Martin took a moment to listen at the stairs, to make sure that the students weren't knocking about on the lower floors. Then he hurried to unlock the cupboard in which he stored his most dangerous possessions – glinting, shining, and deadly.

It was easy enough to find Douglas Richardson's house. What was difficult was finding an appropriate place from which to spy on him. In the end, Martin set up camp at the foot of the slight slope on the opposite side of the road, near the park entrance, and beneath a cluster of trees. He was sure that he would blend into the area despite the brightness of his hair and the pallor of his freckled skin, but could only _hope_ that his telescope didn't draw too much attention.

Once he was there, Martin settled down and waited. He needed to get a good idea of Douglas' routines, so that he could in turn decide when would be the best time to shoot him from afar, quick and painlessly, and then run. That turned out to be far more difficult than he had first anticipated. In fact, Martin didn't even catch a glimpse of the man for the first few days he was there.

It turned out that Douglas Richardson, despite the client's grandiose complaints, didn't have much of a social life. He barely left the house once in the time that Martin was there, except to empty the bins or nip down to the paper shop – both times, the exit had been so quick and so subtle that Martin missed it completely, and didn't get his eye to the telescope in time.

Martin had even tried tapping into the phone-line, all the while sending apologetic prayers up to his Dad, who wouldn't have been best pleased about the way his youngest son was utilising all that he had taught him about being an electrician. Nevertheless, Martin still got nothing. There were a few calls, but after a while he conceded that Douglas probably just used his mobile instead of the landline.

It was on the third day that Martin gave up and decided that it would be best to just shoot the man on his own doorstep. Cruel, perhaps, but easier for everyone in the long run. To his telescope, he attached a slim rifle that wouldn't draw too much attention to itself – one of the most expensive he had, bought when he had first been so desperate for cash that he had made an investment from which he couldn't back away.

Crouched low to the ground, in the shade of a clump of bushes, Martin watched Douglas' front door through squinted eyes, fingers wrapped around the metal tube in his hands. The sun had only climbed half-way into the sky, so it shouldn't have been long until the man left his house to run an errand.

The door opened, and Martin's lungs seized, coming to a halt. His throat tightened in anticipation as his fingers flexed... just a few moments more, and the job would be done. He had to wait until the other man was all the way outside, so that he didn't miss and blow his chances.

A shadow fell over the house, obscuring his view as the door shut and the other man stood fully on the door step. When the sun broke through the clouds, Martin took a deep breath and steeled himself... then paused.

Douglas Richardson was... rather handsome. More importantly, he was dressed from head to toe in a neat, blue uniform with four gold stripes at his wrists, and an impressive hat atop his head, casting his already pleasant features into stark contrast with the rest of him.

Steely determination was replaced by a warm frisson of interest, and for a moment Martin forgot where he was.

A _pilot_ – the man was a pilot, a _Captain_ at that. Immediately, without ever having met him, or done more than ogle him from afar, Martin was filled with a rush of admiration. It was quickly tainted by a twisting in his stomach. He had to _kill_ him... on any other day, he might have said hello, pretended that he hadn't been staring, started a conversation. Even if the other man hadn't been quite nice to look at, Martin would have tried to find out where he worked and asked if they had any vacancies.

Personal fancy aside, on any other day, that man could have been Martin's gateway to everything he had ever wanted... and he had to _kill_ him. Damn...

Although... Martin sighed and brought his weapon down to rest against his knee. He watched from afar as Douglas greeted a taxi driver who had pulled up, blocking any chance of a clear shot he might have. It wouldn't _hurt_ to follow him to work – to get a clearer idea of how best to kill him, of course. If it meant that Martin got to admire some aircraft and breathe in the taste of a career he would never have, then that was purely accidental.

All wanted to do was watch, for a little while. If he caught a few more glimpses of Douglas Richardson... well, the other man would never know.

"It's a bit early for stargazing, Dearie."

Martin almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of a frail but chipper voice. He turned to find an elderly woman standing mere feet away, lead in hand, tiny, yappy dog yanking at it in an attempt to escape. Eyes wide, dizzied by panic, Martin glanced down at the rifle/telescope in his hands. Then he choked, cleared his throat, and forced a nervous smile.

"Oh, I um, uh... yes! It is, yes, but I um – the moon!" he stammered as he ran a hand over the back of his neck. He gave the rifle a shake and then winced, and lowered it to hide it behind his knees. "It's good to chart where the moon is during the day, so that you don't ah... lose it."

The old woman narrowed her eyes, bringing her wrinkles into sharp alignment.

"That's nice, Dearie," she said, nodding slowly as if she couldn't quite believe him. With that, she hobbled past him and onto the footpath, dragging her yappy dog along as it tried to snuffle at the bag in which Martin stored his gear.

When Martin turned back to the house on the other side of the road, Douglas was already gone. Giving in to a flush of despair, he dropped his head into his hands. Then, as he always did, Martin got on with things. There were only so many places a pilot might work in Fitton, and the airfield seemed the safest place to start.

Once he was at Fitton Airfield, Martin did his best not to look too suspicious. If he said so himself, he did a fine job at looking casual, and cool, and perfectly calm, and if anyone had asked him he had a whole thought-out, perfectly planned excuse about how he had wandered onto the airfield by mistake. Perfectly composed... that was him. He sauntered towards what appeared to by the offices, more of a porta-cabin really, and then turned away from it, sure that Douglas Richardson would be in there.

There could be no contact. It would be silly to get caught by someone who he had to kill.

Then Martin spotted her – she was no 747, or anything sleek enough to join the ranks of cherished private jets, but she still looked like a damn good plane. Old, knackered, probably dripping with history... before he knew what he was doing, Martin was drawn towards her, floating like a cat with the cartoon scent of a freshly cooked steak under his nose. There weren't many people around, so he couldn't find the power to talk himself out of it.

It wouldn't hurt to give in to his curiosity, Martin thought as he peered up at the wings, perfectly shaped – one of the flaps looked cleaner than the rest, as if it had been recently replaced. What he wouldn't do to get his hands on her... to fly her, single-handed, dressed in a smart uniform with his licence tucked into a safe pocket where it could be pulled out and shown off in a moment's notice.

"Hello there." A sleek, low, charming voice broke Martin from his reverie. "May I help you?"

For the second time that day, Martin was startled, head snapping towards the source of the voice. He inwardly cursed himself – getting caught where he shouldn't be twice in the same day was a mistake he couldn't afford to make. The thought was blown clean from his mind as he came face to face with slightly rounded cheeks, dark eyes, hair that looked soft even beneath the frankly massive hat, and a half-smirk that pinned him in place.

Douglas Richardson stood before him, eyes slightly narrowed, hands tucked behind his back.

"Hm?" Martin grasped for the right words, burying his hands in his pockets. Unfortunately, under the other man's stare, his mind was wiped blank and he could only stare dumbly up at the plane beside them. "N-no, I mean... No, I'm just looking. She's lovely."

"GERTI does have a unique charm," Douglas drawled, sparing the aircraft only the most fleeting of glances. He didn't seem at all affected by Martin's stammering, barely reacting save for a slight furrow in his brow. He took a swinging step towards him, expectation rolling from him in waves.

Martin plastered on his most pleasant smile, even as he felt his cheeks burn.

"She's a, um... a Lockheed McDonnell," he remarked. He should have ended the conversation and walked away, but he had no idea how.

"Right you are," Douglas replied, and the steady lines of his face were softened by a smile as a light entered the man's eyes, and Martin was confronted with a handsome, smooth-toned pilot that _actually seemed to want to talk to him_. Hooking his thumbs in his pockets, Douglas sauntered to Martin's side and tipped his chin up towards the plane. "I'm impressed. Most people wouldn't have known that."

"Most people wouldn't know a 747 from a 737 if it landed in front of them," Martin snorted.

Douglas caught Martin's eye as a bright sort of bewilderment flashed through his stance.

"Bit of an expert, are you?"

"Well, I ah, I like to think so," Martin replied. Then he hastily cleared his throat, taking a step away from the other man. "N-not in a plane-spottery kind of way. I'm a pilot."

At that, Douglas' eyebrows flew to his hairline and he lost all inkling of defensiveness – in fact, he had been so casual and composed before, everything that Martin wished he was, that it was only when he relaxed even further that he Martin realised he had been on guard. He glanced back towards the porta-cabin.

"Oh – you're here for the interviews?"

In that moment, Martin knew that he should have made his excuses and run – it was bad enough that his target had seen him, and yet... his feet, and his mouth, ignored the frantic screaming inside his skull. Hot tendrils of curiosity wrapped around his tongue and dragged him even further into temptation.

"I-interviews?"

"For the First Officer's position," Douglas explained. "I didn't know Carolyn had anyone booked in for today."

A _pilot_ – if Martin hadn't have been forcing himself to act inconspicuous, his knees would have buckled. It was as if all the luck he had lost in his life was spilling over his head on one day.

They needed a _pilot_.

Obviously it was too good to be true, but... there was no harm in playing along. How else was he going to escape?

"N-no, she doesn't," Martin said, coming up with the best excuse he could. He forced himself to meet the other man's gaze so as not to seem too suspicious, and hoped that for once his natural nervousness would come in useful. Shrugging, he let out a shaky laugh. "I just... I was just looking in. You know, to see if it would be worth bringing in a CV."

"You might as well," Douglas informed him. "You're already miles ahead of anyone else we've tried."

"R-really?" Martin stammered. For a moment, he was so shocked by the honest lilt of Douglas' tone that he forgot he was supposed to be plotting his demise.

"I'm almost entirely sure the last one wasn't even a pilot," Douglas remarked with a meaningful sideways glance. He swayed slightly, scoffing somewhere between a chuckle and a growl, as he continued. "If he was, the last time he touched an aircraft was when Spitfires were the in the air."

"Oh..."

"You can come with me," Douglas continued. "I'll write you into the diary."

With that, he turned and strode towards the porta-cabin. Martin was left with no choice but to follow in his wake, unsure as to whether it would be best to remain half a step behind or to match the other man's stride.

"Oh, no – I wouldn't want you going to any trouble," Martin insisted, unsure whether he wanted to get away or follow. On the one hand, he _needed_ to get as far away as possible. On the other... this was the closest he had got to fulfilling his dream as he had come since he had been fired from his last job.

"It's no trouble at all," Douglas drawled, and he dismissed his concern with a careless wave of his hand. "The sooner the flight-deck is full, the sooner I can get back to doing my job instead of sitting around wishing I was doing my job."

As Douglas led Martin inside the porta-cabin, it became apparent that he didn't suspect a thing. Martin was almost insulted. However, the other man kept shooting him polite but welcoming smiles over his shoulder, and each time he did Martin was rewarded with a warm flutter and the delightful promise of something _good_. An _actual_ pilot, a professional, approved of him – _him_, of all people, and was inviting him to become part of his airline.

It was a dream come true...

All the while, there was an itch at the back of Martin's mind. As he watched Douglas retrieve a diary from an adjoining room, and then return to hover behind what appeared to be his own desk, Martin couldn't help but realise that now was the perfect time to kill him. Nobody would ever know that he was there. It would be a mystery – an attack at an airfield, no witnesses, and no reason for the victim to have been targeted at all.

Martin's heart sank, dipping into the ebbing mass of anticipation that broiled in his guts.

Douglas had removed his hat, leaving it to rest atop his desk. Brow faintly pinched in concentration, as he tapped a pen against his lips and hummed under his breath, flicking through the diary, he was undeniably handsome. More than that, he was kind and charming, maintaining a conversation despite Martin's persistent silence.

The longer Martin watched him, the harder he tried to think of a way out.

Then it hit him. If he got a job, a proper job, he wouldn't _need_ to kill Douglas. Airline pilots made a decent wage – a regular wage at that. If he was actually got the position of First Officer, he wouldn't need to kill _anyone_. He could make his excuses, return his wage to his client, and never lay his hands on a weapon again.

With that in mind, the iron bars that had closed around Martin's lungs faded away, and a smile settled on his lips without a shred of effort.

"Carolyn – that's the boss – is out at the moment, I'm afraid," Douglas was saying.

"An emergency?" Martin inquired, aiming for casualness. He attempted to lean back against the second, empty, desk, hands still folded in his pockets, but he ended up slipping. In the few seconds it took to regain his balance, he felt his cheeks turn red.

"Oh, nothing like that," Douglas answered, decidedly _not_ mentioning Martin's mistake; there was a glint in his eye, and a slight upward twitch of his lips, but he spoke as if he hadn't noticed, demonstratively tapping the diary with the tip of his pen. "She's taken the steward on a course. He's a nice lad, but there's no harm in giving him a little extra training."

"R-right, well..."

"If you want to wait for her, you could sit down, have a coffee," Douglas suggested, pausing and looking up to meet Martin's eye.

Temptation washed through Martin again at the sight of the other man's face, open and expressive. His tone was light and the offer seemed genuine – if it hadn't been, Martin might have said yes. In that moment, he would have rather liked to sit and have coffee with the pilot that he had only just met.

Which was exactly why he couldn't; he couldn't get too attached, and Martin was struck by the daunting, alluring certainty that he _would _get attached.

"No, I'm fine," Martin replied.

"You could have a coffee anyway," Douglas said, quirking an eyebrow. His eyes wandered towards the tattered sofa that was pushed into the corner of the porta-cabin. His tone was nothing but friendly, but it promised more than it revealed. "I've been here long enough to give you a flavour of the company, if you were really serious about applying."

"I-I mean, I've got other... other errands I have to attend to before the end of the day," Martin insisted, swallowing hard as he felt his smile waver. A hand through his hair helped to ground him and he pushed away from the desk, making it clear that he wasn't making himself comfortable.

"Fair enough," Douglas replied with a shrug. He dropped his gaze back down to the diary as if he hadn't been turned down and scratched a line at the bottom of the page. "Here – she's free at the end of the week. How's your schedule looking?"

"Th-the end of the week would be great," Martin assured him, hardly daring to hope.

"So, have you much experience?"

"Isn't this the sort of thing I'd get asked in an interview?"

"Just testing the waters," Douglas remarked with a smirk that set Martin's stomach twisting with guilt once more. "If you were hired, it would be me that had to endure being locked in a small metal room with you."

"Yes, of course," Martin stammered. Pulling his hands from his pockets, unable to stay still, he rubbed his palms together as they grew steadily sweatier. "Well, I... I'm fully qualified, a-and I've been hired before, b-but no... not a lot of experience I'm afraid. It was a, um... a short stint at the last place."

"Well, not to worry," Douglas drawled. "I've spent so long working alongside old codgers I rather like the idea of working with someone new to the game. Yes... I think it would add a nice pinch of excitement to the game."

"W-well, no more excitement than usual, I'm sure," Martin said, fighting back a grin. It almost felt like he was flirting, which was something he hadn't felt in years – attempted, yet- felt... not so much. Gathering his confidence, Martin wandered towards the desk. "I-I just mean, procedure's the same no matter who you're flying with."

At that, Douglas scoffed good-naturedly. Martin ground to a halt as something akin to indignation prickled in his chest. The air of enchantment that he had been imagining around the other man suddenly thinned. He hadn't been at the other airline long, but he had been there long enough to know a good pilot worth admiring from a pilot that broke the rules and slacked off because they could... desperate as he was for Douglas to remain the former, handsome and charming as he was, Martin practically held his breath.

"When you've been flying as long as I have, you realise that protocol's just guidelines compared to natural intuition and skill," Douglas remarked carelessly.

"But it's the _law_," Martin interjected, appalled. Then he saw the surprise cross Douglas' face and hastily raised his hands in surrender. "S-sorry, I shouldn't-"

"Oh, no, feel free," Douglas said, slowly, as if he was mulling over a particularly elusive taste on his tongue. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed Martin. Then he plastered on a smile and straightened up, tearing a page from the diary as he rounded the desk. "If anything, do that in your interview. Carolyn likes people with a little fight in them."

Before Martin could respond, Douglas deposited the sheet of paper in Martin's hands, and then stepped back, hooking his thumbs in his pockets.

"Here you go," he said. "Contact details, time, and a handy list of trick questions Carolyn's likely to ask."

Mouth flapping, unable to think of what to say, Martin looked down at the paper in his hands. Just as Douglas had promised, there was a date and a time, a phone number, a company email address, and a list of questions all written in a neat cursive. He was surprised and oddly touched at the thoughtfulness that had gone into it.

"Thank you."

"Was there anything else you needed?"

"Hm?" Martin blinked and looked up, meeting Douglas' eyes. It was only then that he realised he had been staring down at the paper in some sort of trance while a lump formed in his throat. One single sheet, torn from a diary, was the closest he had been to being a proper pilot in years. In one morning, he had been handed the chance to make years of training and failed CPLs worth it... by the man whose murder he was _supposed_ to be planning. Forcing a smile, Martin inhaled sharply and took a step back, towards the door. "No... no, this is... this is great. Thank you."

"No worries," Douglas replied politely.

Just like that, a void opened up between them and his sheer presence ceased to suck Martin in. In fact, as he expectantly watched him, Martin itched all over with the need to get as far away as possible.

Martin made his excuses and said his goodbyes, thanking Douglas profusely even as the words settled like ash on his tongue. Douglas saw Martin to the door and Martin was forced to leave, feeling slightly stunned and more adrift than he had when caught wandering the airfield.

It was as if the world had tilted on its axis. For the first time _ever_, he had spoken to the person he had been hired to kill and he _liked_ him... more than that, he had been offered a _job_ – his _dream_ job.

Douglas seemed to want him there – true, he might just want someone who wasn't boring, but _still_... Martin would take anything if it meant that he could work for a proper airline – if he could just _fly_ again.

In spite of everything, Martin couldn't stifle a grin as he returned to his car.

That night, Martin lay back in his bed, staring at the rafters above his head. Down below, the students were blaring out music that he didn't care for, but it barely penetrated the frustrated haze that he had worked himself into.

To kill Douglas Richardson... which wasn't nearly as appealing an option as it had once been now that he knew he rather _liked_ the man, or to take a massive leap of faith and apply for the career of his dreams. Morality gave him one answer... life experience, and more importantly, experience of a life filled with failure and bereft of cash, gave him another.

Before he could come to any kind of conclusion, his phone rang. Squeezing his eyes shut and embracing the peace the dark brought, Martin reached out and pressed his phone to his ear. The caller didn't even introduce himself.

"_Is it done?"_

The voice of his client, reedy and not nearly as confident as the man obviously wanted to sound, filtered into his ear. Martin didn't know his name, or who he really was. All he knew was that he had paid a decent fee to see Douglas Richardson, the man who had delivered Martin's first sliver of hope in years, dead on a slab. The voice sent nauseas spirals of hatred spinning through his stomach. The man was a coward... which was only a step down from killer.

"N-no, not yet," Martin replied.

"_Why not?" _The client demanded._ "I'm not paying you the other half until Douglas Richardson is on a slab."_

"Yes, I know."

"_Then why is it taking so long?"_

"B-because – you want this done properly, don't you?" Martin snapped, and then hastily lowered his voice. He tilted the phone away from his ear so that he could listen for a creak on the stairs, but nobody was outside his attic.

"_Of course I do," _the client replied, with a defensive squeak.

"Then I've got to take it slowly," Martin said. All he needed was an excuse, a way to prevaricate until he could either back out or do the job properly. "I-if I rush this, it could be traced back to you. Give me time and I'll sort it. I'll sort it properly, after a precise and necessary set of precautions have been put in place and I can perform a proper infiltration.

"_Infiltration?"_

"That's what I said."

"_And they won't trace it back to me?"_

"Of course not," Martin retorted.

"_Well, alright then," _the client conceded. Martin could imagine him tugging at his collar and sweating nervously, nowhere near the sort of man that could commit murder with his own two hands. That was probably a good thing, but it set Martin's teeth on edge. _"Just remember, I'm forking out good money on this."_

"I'm sorry, sir, but if you want a shoddy job done you should have gone elsewhere," Martin replied, smarting with a sick sense of pride.

"_I can't go elsewhere, can I?" _the client snapped. Then he sighed down the line, sending crackles racing into Martin's ear._ "Right, fine. Let me know when it's done."_

The call was cut short, and Martin dropped the phone onto the bed beside him. Opening his eyes, he let relief wash over him. The ceiling, white and crumbling in places, offered him no solace. There was nothing he could do for now except hope that things turned out alright... by the end of the week, he could be a paid pilot.

With nothing else to do, Martin reached for the sheet of paper that he had left, flattened out, on the bedside table. Holding it up to the light, he read the neat cursive for what seemed like the hundredth time; he could have replicated the curls on the 'l's and the 'h's by now. Although none of the words had been said aloud, Martin could imagine them being recited by an unfamiliar but indomitably charming drawl.

When he eventually dozed off, it was with a smile on his face.

Martin wasn't smiling by Friday noon.

Sitting in MJN's porta-cabin, Martin could _feel_ every ounce of hope he had draining away. For the first time since he had first followed the man, Martin feared that he might actually have to kill Douglas – a prospect made even worse by the way that Douglas had greeted him when he entered the porta-cabin with a smile that sent flutters tumbling in his chest and brought a shy grin to his own lips.

The other man had immediately gone back to chatting with a young man that Martin assumed was the steward, and Martin had been buoyed. Now, however, he was sinking.

The interview wasn't going well. Martin was wearing his smartest suit, and putting on his best act as a competent pilot, but Carolyn Knapp-Shappey wasn't buying any of it. She wasn't impressed by his CV or his attitude, despite his insistence that he _loved_ aviation, and would be a loyal employee no matter what happened.

While Carolyn paced back and forth, his CV clutched ahead of her like an executioner's axe, Martin sat feeling oddly like a school boy as he held his head high, tipped up his chin, and tried not to wring his hands together.

"As keen as you are, your lack of experience doesn't promise good things," Carolyn declared, sounding as if she was taking far too much joy from rolling the accusations around her tongue. She fixed him with hawkish eyes, a deadly smile plucking at her lips. "Neither do the many, many attempts you made at gaining your CPL."

"B-but I did pass," Martin replied. "A-and my written grades were almost a hundred percent."

"Be that as it may, flying an aeroplane day after day requires _practical_ expertise-"

"I'm fully up to date with the required safety protocol, and the technical specifications of almost every commercial craft in the air today," Martin interrupted and immediately regretted it, but he forced himself to appear confident and cool, as if he hadn't made a fatal mistake.

Carolyn stilled ever so slightly, and her tone smoothed to a sweet, almost honeyed note. However, there was no denying that she was decided and would not be swayed under any circumstances.

It was useless. Martin was useless, he knew. But he was so desperate – desperate to get the job, to speak to Douglas again, to _not_ have to murder him for a few measly hundred pounds. It wasn't as if he was asking much. Just a little leeway – anything – he would literally take anything.

"That is impressive, I'll admit," Carolyn was saying, glancing down at his CV as if she actually intended to give him a chance. "However, I'm afraid-"

"I'll do it for half!"

The exclamation was past Martin's lips before he could stop it. He wanted to slap himself, but then... then an odd light came into Carolyn's eyes. She stilled completely, turned towards him, and pursed her lips. Martin was struck by a peculiar sensation, one reminiscent of wobbling on a balance beam in school PE lessons, somewhere between hope and sheer despair as he waited to find out whether he had made a mistake or received the biggest stroke of luck known to mankind.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'll do it for half what you paid the last guy," Martin reiterated, quickly, so that there could be no doubt that he meant it. He forced himself not to lean forwards and look too helpless.

"Half?" Carolyn repeated. Then her expression hardened and she grinned a shark-like grin, stepping closer so that she was standing over him, _looming. _"A quarter."

"A-a quarter?" Martin stammered, shaking his head. "N-no, I can't go that low."

"Are you sure?"

"Y-yes?"

"You _are_ currently unemployed," Carolyn reminded him, cocking her eyebrow as she placed his CV down in front of him.

"I-I can..." Martin trailed off as his eyes trailed over the bare expanse of his CV. There wasn't enough there, not enough experience, not enough to sell him to anyone. The one thing that he was just barely good at he couldn't even list; most airlines weren't in the market for pilots skilled in assassination. Swallowing hard, he made another offer. "I can do it for a third?"

"A quarter, and no more," Carolyn countered.

"B-but that's not-"

"You said half and then you went lower," Carolyn interrupted with all the confidence of someone who had already won. "Mr Crieff, never be the first one to drop your bid."

Martin stammered, but made no sound. After a moment, he dropped his head into his hands. A _quarter_... surely, a small price to pay to do what he had always wanted to do, and to spare the life of the man in the other room. Still... a _quarter_...

"How little would you take to be Captain?"

At the sound of Carolyn's voice, Martin's head snapped up.

"Captain?"

Somehow, and Martin would never know how, he walked from Fitton Airfield as MJN's new Captain. Carolyn had barely spared a thought for Douglas as she gave away his position, and Martin felt a swell of guilt at that... in addition to the sickening knot that pulled taut in his guts at the realisation that without a wage, the only money he could make was in return for Douglas' life. There had to be some way he could put that off... hopefully for good.

Nevertheless, Martin felt rather proud of himself as he imagined the gold stripes at his wrist and the hat atop his head – in command of an aircraft, after all of his hard work. Whatever else happened, he deserved it.

Half-way into their first flight together, Martin was beginning to reconsider his not-killing-Douglas policy – not seriously, of course, but he could sympathise with his mysterious client to a far greater extent. Martin had expected Douglas to be bitter about being demoted, but he had also expected him to remain the charming, handsome, idealised pilot that he had been the day they had met.

In his defence, he _was_ still charming and handsome – it was just a shame he also ignored the rules, ignored _Martin's_ authority, and was in a generally sour mood from the filing of the flight-plan right up into the sky. The only thing stopping Martin from disliking him entirely was the fact that Douglas could, inexplicably, lift a situation from its misery at the drop of a hat. They could be furious at each other, but Douglas could flash a smile and make a comforting joke, and for a few minutes, everything was alright again.

Against all his better judgement, Martin _still_ really liked him.

And he _still_ hadn't called his client to tell him the job was off... he could string him along for a little while longer, while he decided whether it was worse abandoning his only source of income for a job that was both a dream and a nightmare. Douglas had his ups and down, Carolyn was the same shark as ever, but she also took the time to get to know her two employees in a way that other bosses didn't, and Arthur... Arthur's only downside was that sometimes he could be _too_ nice.

They were thousands of miles in the air when things began to change, if only by an inch.

"There's a way of doing things," Martin insisted, taking care not to lose sight of any instruments even as he focused half of his attention on the man that was slumped in the First Officer's seat. His chest was heaving and his cheeks were burning, but Martin was fuelled by the knowledge that he was _right_.

"I'm well aware of that," Douglas replied curtly, touching the tip of his cap to make it lie just out of line with his brow, in the annoyingly dashing but still unprofessional way that he always did. "However, flying GERTI comes with its own way of doing things."

"Look, I don't care how much experience you've had, or how lax the rules have been lately – there are protocol," Martin retorted, "You can't just fly about whilly-nilly."

"Whilly-nilly-ness aside, Captain, GERTI requires a special touch _not_ because I think myself a cut above the rest – that I shall leave in your capable hands – but because she's more often than not falling apart," Douglas replied, sounding awfully like he was gritting his teeth as he glared out at the sky ahead of them. "If you don't waggle this and that in the right order, or apply just the wrong amount of pressure to various levers, she may well fall out of the sky."

Just like that, Martin felt as if he had been dropped in cold water.

"Oh."

"Does that answer your question?"

"I've forgotten what the question was," Martin admitted. To avoid catching Douglas' eye, he tapped the artificial horizon and wondered again whether it was actually working. It didn't seem to be.

"Yes, I thought you had," Douglas muttered. Then he let out a heaving sigh and turned to properly look at him, rolling his shoulders back as he visibly relaxed. "Martin... it seems to me that, while you're enjoying your new rank, you're rather flexing your muscles a bit."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Martin's head snapped around so hard that his neck twinged.

"It means that just because you're afraid you'll have your Captaincy taken away from you..." Douglas said, slowly, as if awaiting retaliation, "don't take it out on me."

"I'm not-"

"Aren't you?"

For a moment, Martin just stared at Douglas. Then his shoulders sagged and he slumped back until his seat pressed a hard line against his spine, taking care to never drop his head lest he admit utter defeat. Running a hand over his face, he mustered up what little humility he had and then met Douglas' gaze.

"I-I... I'm sorry if it seems that way," Martin said, realising with a trickle of misery that he _had_ been overstepping a line; he didn't _want_ to alienate anyone. "It's just... you've got all this experience, and knowledge, and... dare I say it, talent, a-and it seems to me that you forget, with all that, that there are certain procedures that need to be followed for the safety of everyone on board."

"You're just afraid of the CAA," Douglas replied with a small nod that Martin took to mean 'apology accepted'. He checked the controls, even though there was no need, and continued to stare out into the sky.

"The CAA are the ones that'll take your licence if you mess up," Martin retorted before he could stop himself.

"I guess it's a good thing I never _mess up_ then."

"Douglas, this is exactly what I mean," Martin sighed, biting back a frisson of frustration. A deep breath kept him calm, and kept him reasonable. "You think you can't mess up-"

"I can't."

"B-but you might," Martin bit out, tone turning harder than he intended. Incapable of watching Douglas any longer, he too looked out at the sky and watched him from the corner of his eye. "A-and as Captain, it's my job to make sure that doesn't happen. So can we both just pretend that this is a proper airline and get on with things that proper way."

Douglas folded his arms and tipped back his hat, settling for a frown.

"Fine."

Victory lasted less than a minute, and after that it turned sour.

Martin endured the silence that had descended on the flight-deck for a few minutes more before it grew oppressive.

"Douglas?"

Nothing.

"Douglas?"

"Hm, yes?" Douglas replied, blinking as if surprised. He turned and fixed Martin with an expectant stare, bereft of the light-hearted anticipation that his eyes had once held. "Did you need something, Captain?"

"W-well, I..." Martin stammered, unsure of what he had wanted in the first place. "We're not going to sit in silence, are we?"

"That's what they do at proper airlines," Douglas drawled.

"This _is_ a proper airline."

"Oh, _is_ it now?"

"So you're not going to talk to me?"

Instead of answering, Douglas surveyed him through narrowed eyes. Just as Martin couldn't resist the urge to squirm any longer, Douglas plastered on a dim facsimile of his normal smile and patted his armrest.

"How do you fancy a little game?" he asked. "No wager. Just a friendly competition."

The longer they played, the more Martin remembered why he had liked Douglas. He couldn't imagine how he had every thought that he could hurt him... he also couldn't imagine how he was going to let down his client. However, he was safe in the knowledge that they had a layover, and he wouldn't be under fire until they got back to Fitton.

Sitting at the desk in his attic, Martin checked his phone. He checked his emails, and then checked his phone again, all the while rapping his nails against the wood so hard that he was sure he was carving indents into the wood.

His client couldn't actually _do_ anything – he was a coward who hired an assassin – not even a proper hit-man. He had hired the cheapest hit-man he could find. He was harmless. He might demand his money back, and Martin _couldn't _go without. There was rent to pay, food to buy, and his savings only stretched so far.

A beep and the electric thrum of his phone against the desk jerked Martin from his reverie. In a flash, the screen was under his nose and the light was burning his eyes. There was one text... from MJN.

_Fitton to Cairo, 10.14am, tomorrow._

For once, Martin let the warmth bubbling up in his stomach drown out his despair. With a sigh, he left his phone and the computer on the desk, and ambled downstairs to see if the students had ignored him and finished off his milk.

It had been too long now to even consider going through with the assassination. Martin's stomach churned every time he thought about it, and every time he thought about it, he looked to the side and there was Douglas, as annoying and charming as he had been from day one. Money or not, Martin couldn't lay a hand on him... he should never have followed him to work.

Today, the guilt clawed at his insides and refused to fade away, no matter what else was going on inside the flight-deck.

Arthur, who was leaning between their seats, an arm slung over each one, was firing off theories with startlingly poor precision.

"But, I mean, realistically-"

"We've been over this, Arthur," Martin exclaimed, turning to stare up at the other man over his shoulder. His cheeks were warm with the effort of arguing, and his lips pulled into a half-smile each time he caught Douglas' eye. "Realistically, there is literally no way for us to land on a cloud."

"I know that, I do," Arthur replied, perfectly calmly as if it were the more reasonable thing in the world. "I was just thinking, maybe at some point, we could have."

"And what brought forth this particular train of thought?" Douglas inquired from where he had been watching the scene unfold with barely concealed smug bemusement. His hat was hooked over the corner of his seat and his ankles were kicked up, making it seem as if he could have been sitting in a cocktail bar for all the hard work he was doing.

"I was talking to someone and they said that so many people wrote about dragons that at some point, there must have been dragons. Like dinosaurs," Arthur explained. "So I thought, there are so many movies where people stand on clouds, or have houses on clouds, or climb up and find giants on clouds, that at some point it must have been possible."

"But clouds are just water!" Martin argued. "They're vapour – that's it."

"Yeah, but still," Arthur shrugged.

"Still _nothing_."

"I think we can chalk this up to being one of life's little mysteries, Arthur," Douglas interjected before Martin could say any more. "One of those mass delusions that human kind has been having since the dawn of time."

"Oh, right." Arthur nodded sagely. "But if we could-"

"You would be the first to know."

"Aw, thanks, Douglas," Arthur replied, patting Douglas' shoulder. Then he reached between them and took their empty coffee mugs. "I'll get these cleared away."

With that, Arthur disappeared, leaving them alone with the humming whir of the engines and the greying clouds ahead of them. Martin sighed and rolled the stiffness from his shoulders, blinking away the faint sting that came with a restless night.

"You're looking very wistful, Martin," Douglas remarked, his voice like a gentle breeze against the hush.

"A-am I?"

"Yes."

"Well, I-I..." Martin gave up before he had time to think up an excuse. There was no point. He couldn't quite meet Douglas' eye, even though he wanted to, so settled for picking at the armrest, pulling the threads loose. "I wouldn't know why."

Douglas' eyes burned against his cheeks like a balm, but he didn't say a word. After a moment, he spoke again, and this time there was a lightness and a smile in his tone that made something in Martin's chest pang.

"How about a game?"

"Hm?" Martin blinked blearily as he turned to his co-pilot. Then he realised what he was being asked, and all of a sudden, his mind cleared. Words came to his tongue unbidden, even as his fingers continued to squirm against the arm of his seat. "Yes, sure. Actually, can I pick this one?"

"As you wish, Captain," Douglas replied with a patient nod. He turned back to the controls, giving Martin the semblance of privacy that he needed.

"Well, it's... i-it's not a word game, as such," Martin said, testing each word as if it were acid threatening to burn through his chin and down to the grating beneath their feet. Inhaling sharply, he forced himself to continue. "It's more like... i-it's more like Never-Have-I-Ever – e-except it's What-Would-You-Say-If."

"An interesting take on the drinking game of old," Douglas remarked with a cheerful vigour.

His obliviousness made Martin's lungs ache with the urge to correct him, but he couldn't do it. It was painful enough, just looking at him, knowing how badly things had turned out – how badly they _could_ have turned out if not for his own spectacularly poor luck.

"Y-yes, well – I-I thought you might like it," Martin couldn't quite laugh, as the puff of air that left his lips was too sour to savour.

"I do," Douglas replied. "As it's your game, Captain, I'll allow you the first go."

"Alright, well... Um." Martin struggled to find something light-hearted, to get them started; to let Douglas know that this was a game and nothing more; to pretend that there was nothing more to it than their friendship. "Just as an example... What would you do if... i-if we _could_ land on the clouds?"

"If I could land on the clouds?" Douglas repeated, in the assuredly, drawling way that Martin had come to recognise as the voice he used when he was buying time to sound even more smug than he already did. "Well, one would assume that if such a thing were possible, human kind would have commercialised every cloud in the sky. I think I'd probably be doing exactly what I do now – landing In an airport, doing the paperwork, and slaving away under Carolyn's rule."

"You never do the paperwork."

"You're right," Douglas agreed. He shot Martin a sideways glance. "That was far too unbelievable."

"Okay, your turn," Martin prompted, trying not to sound too eager lest his voice well up.

"Oh, let me have a think," Douglas drawled, pressing his fingers to his lips. His eyebrows rose and his lips pulled into a smirk. "What would you do if, for one day, you could do anything in the world – one thing, the deepest desire of your heart... or whatever takes your fancy."

"No, come on," Martin exclaimed, and for a moment he was so exasperated that he forgot that he was aching. "You can't start with something so huge."

"Fine, fine," Douglas sighed. With a heaving sigh, more of a jest than a serious motion, he continued. "If you could spend the day with one person, who would it be?"

"That's not exactly 'what would you do'."

"You can't pass on two questions," Douglas scolded him.

Martin didn't answer at first. He shifted uncomfortably as the aching lump settled in his stomach and made his throat itch, and he had to take a deep breath to avoid catching Douglas' eye and crumbling.

"I suppose... I'd spend it with someone nice," Martin admitted with a shrug that did nothing to hide his sudden mood. He wound his hands together, and then reached for the controls so that he had something to ground him. "Someone I liked. Y-you know... someone who I could talk to, have a laugh with, take to dinner... someone that I might want to spend _another_ day with."

"Oh..."

Martin's head snapped around before he had time to consider the motion. Suddenly, the engines felt too loud, thrumming through him in a way that he usually loved, but now made it clear how still the air had gone between them.

"What?"

Douglas shrugged and cleared his throat, unusually tentative.

"Well, I was expecting you to say Amelia Earhart, but that was actually-"

"Sorry, that was-"

"It was good," Douglas interrupted. He offered Martin a weak smile, nodding as if that would corroborate his assertion. "It was a good answer."

"Really?"

"Really," Douglas assured him. "It seems you _do _have hidden depths."

They kept playing for a while, and Douglas seemed to be enjoying himself. Martin would have enjoyed himself too, _did_ enjoy himself, but he knew that it couldn't last. There was a reason he had started the game, and it had to happen eventually. It would have been a lot easier if he hadn't wanted to swallow his tongue.

"Alright, okay, how about this," Martin said, pausing just long enough to ensure that the flight-deck was as quiet as it could be. His muscles felt like they were pulling too tight, but he couldn't stop now. "What if... wh-what would you do, I mean, if... if I was an assassin, and the only reason I came here was because some stranger down the phone paid me to kill you."

There was a moment of silence in which Martin felt his heart drop. Then Douglas spoke.

"Been watching a lot of gangster films have you?"

"Something like that," Martin muttered. He didn't dare look at the other man.

"Well..." Douglas seemed to consider his next words. There was a softness in his tone that seemed out of place, but Martin could have fallen to his knees in gratitude for it, until of course he heard what Douglas said next. "I'd think you were in the wrong job."

"Oh, _thanks_."

"Not as a pilot, as an assassin," Douglas sighed, and just like that, everything was back to normal. He rolled his eyes and tipped his hat back as he continued. "Honestly, Martin. I think you'd have a far nicer time flying beside me than murdering me."

"Yeah, me..." Martin swallowed hard as he gripped the controls and forced himself not to give in to the burn behind his eyes. "Me too."

The weapons lived in his car boot now. Martin never brought them back to the attic. He couldn't bear to look at them, or think about who he had been planning to use them on. The phone pressed to his ear was the only reminder of what he could have lost.

"_Is it done?"_

"Not yet."

"_Get on with it." _

The flight was over, the sky was just turning from grey to a murkier dark blue, and Martin was loitering next to his car, staring out across the airfield. GERTI stood stark against the floodlights where they had left her, the porta-cabin was nothing more than a black rectangle silhouetted against the grim evening, and his breath turned into silver spirals just past his lips. Hands in pockets, he took slow breaths and tried to clear his mind.

He was gently nudged from his reverie by the sight of Douglas, wrapped in his great-coat, strolling over to meet him.

"Douglas – hi." Martin hastened to stand up straight and put on a near-cheerful face, although he was sure that he failed completely. Brow furrowed, he waited until the other man was a mere few feet away before continuing. "Is everything alright?"

"I was about to ask you the same question," Douglas said in lieu of an answer.

"I'm fine, I'm just... thinking."

"About anything in particular?"

"Hm?" Martin blinked as he realised that he had drifted off again. He shrugged and pulled his coat more tightly around himself, hoping that the chill in the air hid the flush that he could feel burning in his cheeks. "No. Life, you know?"

"As far as I know, I've been living one."

"So, um..." Drawing his lip between his teeth, Martin's took a moment to trail his eyes down Douglas' face, noting the slight wind-chill on his cheeks. "Did you need something?"

"I was just wondering whether you had any plans this evening?" Douglas replied, swaying slightly, nonchalance rippling just under the surface where it would usually hover like a second skin. His eyes never once left Martin's face.

"What?" Martin stammered. "N-no, no, I don't. Why?"

"I thought, as you've been working here for a little while now and we haven't really seen much of each other, you might fancy grabbing dinner," Douglas explained, again a little too quickly and a little too simply, lips pressed into a thin line as his eyes remained fixed. "Of course it wouldn't be entirely business... It might be a nice chance to get to know each other."

For a moment, Martin simply stared. Then his heart skipped back into its usual rhythm.

"That... that would be nice," he said, shivering slightly against the cold. He knew that he should have said no, but... he didn't _want_ to. "Yes, I mean. Sure. At a restaurant?"

"Well, we can if you like," Douglas replied, cocking his head to the side and stretching out his vowels. A smile that might have been nervous settled around his lips, without actually touching them. "However, I was thinking of cooking up something myself – it's less formal."

"Yes –I mean, that would be lovely," Martin assured him before he could say anything that might take the moment away from him. He wasn't conscious of much more than the man standing beside him, but he longed to escape into whatever was being suggested, anything just for a while. "Thank you."

"Good. Well, I got a taxi in, so..." Douglas shot a meaningful glance at Martin's car.

"Oh, yes, of course," Martin jolted into action, forcing a smile and turning to his car. Then he realised what was inside and his stomach dropped like a stone. Quickly, Martin side-stepped in front of Douglas and cut his way to the driver's seat door, speaking too loud and too quickly for it to have been natural. "I think the child-lock's on though, so just let me..."

Before Douglas could argue, Martin darted inside and shut the door behind him. He hastily gathered any papers or items that might be suspicious, maps, client's details, a pen-knife and the lens from his rifle – all of it went in the glove-box, which was locked. Then he reached over and pushed the passenger door open, making sure to run his fingers down the edge as if seeking out a particular lock.

Douglas got in without a word, and although his nose wrinkled at the state of the dashboard, he didn't say a word that might suggest he had seen anything wrong.

"Alright, let's go," Martin announced, slapping his hands on the wheel.

"Don't you need my address?" Douglas chimed, just as Martin turned the key and the engine spluttered into life.

"What?" Martin's lungs seized as he realised his mistake. Mercifully, Douglas just seemed to assume that it was Martin being Martin, careless as always when panicked. Martin let out a nervous laugh and rubbed at the back of his neck, cheeks red with embarrassment and shame, although he was sure that Douglas knew nothing about the days in which he had staked out his house. "Oh, yes, silly me."

Dinner was nice.

For once, Martin was sure that he had made the right decision. For once, they seemed to be bonding.

The food was delicious, and Douglas was, if possible, even more relaxed than normal as his natural nonchalance made way for a modicum more modesty. He talked about his daughter and his divorces, the more recent of which had happened not long before Martin had joined MJN, and all the while, Martin didn't doubt their friendship once. In fact, he longed to be able to stay and keep talking, to keep looking at Douglas and enjoying his company and forgetting that there had ever been a reason to take him out of the world.

"And she just left you?" Martin asked, doing nothing to hide his disbelief. He was sitting on one end of the sofa, Douglas on the other, but it wasn't large, and there was only a foot of space keeping their knees from knocking.

"Well, it was a mutual decision," Douglas explained with a shrug that didn't reach his expression. "On her part, she was disappointed when Carolyn left a message on the answering machine to inform me that in light of _another_ pilot leaving MJN, I could finally be promoted to Captain – the fact that she thought I was _already _Captain didn't help matters."

"Oh no, I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"But you never even got to _be_ Captain," Martin insisted.

"It doesn't matter," Douglas assured him. As he had since they had started talking, he glanced at the floor more often than he ever would have at work, trailing a lazy hand through the air with slightly more thoughtless jerks than he would have on GERTI. "As superior officers go... you're not bad."

"Really?"

"No. Don't get me wrong," Douglas said, smirking as he looked up and caught Martin's eye. "You're overbearing, bossy, and a stickler for the rules... but underneath that, you're nowhere near as smug, self-satisfied or... half of the things that make most professional pilots unbearable.

"Oh... thank you," Martin murmured, clearing his throat as he lowered his gaze to stare at his knees. "Still, you never know when the right woman will turn up."

"Or man," Douglas amended, and at that Martin's eyes leapt up as something skipped somewhere between his chest and his abdomen. Douglas continued as if he didn't notice. "But yes, the premise remains the same."

After a while, Douglas rose to wander into the kitchen, and Martin followed not far behind.

"Now, I don't have any _real_ wine in... at the moment," Douglas remarked as he retrieved two wine glasses and a bottle of red liquid that still looked more expensive than anything Martin could afford. He offered Martin a grin over the bottle as he poured them both a generous amount. "However, I do have a rather delicious substitute, if you want something to sip while you regale me with tales of your own."

"Tales?" Martin squeaked, mind leaping to places it shouldn't have ever been.

"There has to be a reason you're so obsessed with aviation," Douglas elaborated. He pressed a glass into Martin's hand, oblivious to the panic that was abating within the other man. "No doubt it's thrilling. Here you go. Hold this."

Somehow, and Martin was never sure how, without saying a word, the conversation ended. He found himself staring over the top of his glass, holding Douglas' gaze as Douglas' did the same, sipping once and then placing his own drink on the side. They were close, close enough that Martin needed only to place his hand on the counter and slide it across to make contact – if he leaned – one of them _was_ leaning-

A splash of damp at his chest shattered the air and Martin cursed as the substitute wine seeped through his shirt – his uniform at that. The moment was gone and before he knew what was happening, he was being ushered into a sparklingly clean bathroom and handed a towel.

"There you go, in there. Dry yourself off."

"Sorry about this," Martin muttered, but Douglas simply shrugged it off and left him alone to sort himself out.

Once he was vaguely dry and certain that his shirt was going to stain, Martin considered walking into the living room shirtless... and then changed his mind and buttoned up the stained shirt. When he entered the living room, however, it was empty. He waited a moment, and then wandered through to the kitchen. Just as he was about to call out, Martin found Douglas, standing over the kitchen table. It took a moment to realise what was sitting open in front of him, but when he did... Martin's cells turned ice cold, and his skull was emptied of all the noise that had filled it.

"Wh-what are you doing with that?"

Open on the kitchen table was Martin's kit-bag. The glinting ends of various lethal weapons were visible inside.

"I went to the car to fetch your flight-bag," Douglas replied, voice flat as he hung his head low, staring at the bag's contents. He swallowed audibly, hands clenching all the while around the hard curve of the table's edge. "I thought you might have a spare shirt."

"Oh..." Martin wanted to step closer, but he was rooted in the doorway, turned slightly towards the other room as if his body was ready to run when all he wanted to do was go inside. "Oh, Douglas."

"I must have picked up the wrong one," Douglas continued. Then he lifted his head and his face was pulled asunder by the horrified lines that cut into it. His eyes bored into Martin's as he finally raised his voice. "What the hell is this?"

"I-it's... I-I can explain, i-it's-"

"What are you? Some kind of-"

"It's a job."

"Enthusiast..."

"Oh."

Douglas trailed off, shoulders rising as they tensed, and stared at Martin as if he had never seen him before in his life.

"A job. As in..."

Panic shot through him, but Martin felt more in control of his limbs than he had done in his entire life. He raised his hands in surrender, as he felt the warmth leech from every inch of his skin, and begged Douglas with his eyes to just _listen_.

"Douglas-"

"You use these... as part of your work," Douglas said, as if he were tasting words he had never formed before. He shook his head and dragged a hand down his chin. "Martin, you're a _pilot_."

"I-I _am_, now... b-but I'm so strapped for cash, a-and I needed something," Martin said hastily, letting the words fall from his mouth.

"So you _kill_ people?"

"Not... n-not often."

"But that makes it alright?"

"I'm not good at it – I don't get many bookings," Martin insisted, chest hitching as he struggled to get the air that he needed into his lungs. Douglas shouldn't have been looking at him like that, like he was something dangerous. The space between them shouldn't have felt so hard, like ice.

"You get _some_ though," Douglas spluttered, losing his composure for just a moment as he threw out a hand and knocked the bag to the side. The moment he made contact, he flinched away from it. "Martin... these were in your car." Douglas froze, staring into space as the bridge of his nose scrunched. "You're working _now_? Did you apply for MJN because you needed an easy way to travel from place to place?"

"That didn't even enter my mind," Martin replied honestly, desperately, voice barely louder than a whisper.

"So it's someone local?" Douglas asked. Upon receiving no response, his expression hardened. "Who is it?"

Nothing.

Martin couldn't think of what to say. There were no words. There was only Douglas, standing in front of him, eyes boring into his as he felt his hands slowly drop from where they hung in the air.

"Martin?"

Nothing.

"Why are you just staring at me?" Douglas demanded. "Martin, who is it?"

Nothing.

Then Douglas paled. He staggered back and Martin came back to life.

"_Me_?"

"I don't _want_ to," Martin exclaimed, palm flying to lie flat across his chest. He took a step forwards, but Douglas reeled back and Martin froze. All of a sudden, the cold places inside of him burned.

"But you're _going_ to?" Douglas asked. Now _his_ chest was heaving.

"No! No, I'm not!"

"Then why are you carrying these around?" Douglas pointed furiously at the bag. "Start talking now, Martin."

"Someone paid me-"

"Who?"

"I don't know – they never said," Martin explained, even though he knew it would do no good. "They keep talking about smuggling-"

"That could be anyone!"

"I-I know, but I'm not _going_ to," Martin dropped into a whisper without realising that he had done it. "I don't _want_ to."

"You're prepared," Douglas sneered, and suddenly Martin wished that he would _stop_ looking at him.

"That's because I... I needed the money, and it was before I even met you," Martin said. Despair flooded through his as he dropped his head into his hands. In the moments that his eyes were covered, he could hear Douglas pacing two steps, and then back, and then stopping as every sound he made ceased in one second.

"You... you came to the airfield," Douglas said, voice no louder than a breath, as if he were reliving a dream. "You came and found me and then... you put yourself in the flight-deck, with _me_, right next to me so that you could-"

"No! Douglas, no... I could never do that to you," Martin insisted. He didn't move towards him but he reached out, imploring him to see that he meant every word. "I'm going to send the money back as soon as I have time to talk to the bank – I'm going to call him up and tell him that I can't kill you – I can't. Not you."

For a fraction of a second, Douglas said nothing. Then his expression shuttered and he was completely calm.

"Get out."

"Douglas-"

"Get out!"

Just like that, Douglas was raging again, except – Martin realised with a lurch of nausea that Douglas wasn't angry. He was terrified. He was pale and shaking and refusing to look at Martin at all. With nothing left to say, Martin gasped one final breath and turned his back, all but fleeing to his car.

It was only when he was half-way back to Parkside that he realised he had left his weapons in Douglas' kitchen. Martin could have turned back, but he didn't. Perhaps having them there would make Douglas feel more secure.

Once the engine was silent, Martin dropped his head against the steering wheel.

He had ruined everything.

What if Douglas told Carolyn? What if he told the police?

What if he never spoke to him again?

So late that even the students were asleep, Martin pressed the phone to his ear. He didn't wait to hear what his client had to say.

"I'm not doing it," he growled, seizing every ounce of hurt and ruin that had wracked him since he had left Douglas' house. The bedclothes cut lines into his palms, pulled taut by the sheer force of his grasp. "I'm not killing him. I've transferred your money back, and I don't ever want to hear from you again."

Praying that everything would be alright, Martin turned up to work the next day. They were supposed to be on stand-by, and he hoped that he might talk to Douglas... although he didn't hold out too much hope. If Douglas hadn't gone to the police, or called Carolyn, he had probably left the country.

When he entered the porta-cabin, everything seemed normal.

"Morning, Skip!"

"Morning, Arthur."

"Oh, are you alright?" Arthur abandoned his cheerful trek towards the kettle and wandered over to meet him, hovering just to the side as Martin shuffled the papers on his desk without really looking at them. "You look a bit... eugh... not that you don't look the same as always, just more... eugh than usual."

"I'm fine, Arthur."

"Are you sure?" Arthur asked. "Because I can knock up one of my famous lemon teas. Well, they're not famous, but they could be."

"No, thank you," Martin replied. He stole a weary glance at the other uninhabited desk. "Has Douglas been in?"

"Not yet, but he'll turn up," Arthur assured him. "He always does."

As Arthur wandered off, Carolyn strode in from her office.

"There you are, Martin," she said in lieu of greeting. "Where have you been?"

"Wh-what? I'm on time... aren't I?"

Martin glanced at his watch.

"You're normally early," Carolyn replied curtly. She also glanced towards Douglas' desk, but with more of a bite in her gaze.

"Well, today I... wasn't," Martin sighed. "Sorry, I've just had a lot on my mind."

"And I'd rather it stayed out of mine," Carolyn remarked, albeit without the edge that she had employed before. She carried on talking as she walked to the other side of the room. "If you can get hold of Douglas, do please remind him that I'm not paying him for hours that he's not here."

"H-he hasn't called in sick or anything like that?"

"No, of course he hasn't," Carolyn retorted. "That man wouldn't admit to being sick if influenza bit him on the nose."

"Right – alright, I'll um... I'll let him know."

Staring down at his hands, Martin just hoped that he had the chance.

A few hours later, they were still waiting for Douglas to turn up. Growing sick of the twisting in his guts, Martin decided to look outside and was surprised to see Douglas' car, shiny, expensive, and not often used when there was a perfectly viable taxi service available.

Without any better ideas, Martin looked in GERTI... and was for once rewarded with a stroke of good luck. He hovered on the threshold of the flight-deck, making enough noise for Douglas to know that he was there, but unable to muster the nerve to go any closer.

"This isn't the ideal place to do it, I suppose," Douglas remarked without turning his head. His voice echoed slightly in the small space, making it sound tinnier, more strained than it ever had the right to be. "Too narrow a pool of culprits."

"Douglas, you know I would never lay a hand on you," Martin sighed as he leaned against the doorframe.

"Why not?"

"Because I... you're _you_, and I... I'm _me_... we're... we're _us_, we're friends."

"I thought you weren't here to make friends, _Captain_."

The echo of words said in spite, weeks before, rattled around inside Martin's skull. He cursed himself so hard that he could have bitten his own tongue in two, but settled for squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head.

"I... I shouldn't have said that," he said. "I didn't even mean it when I said it. I was just showing off – you know I was showing off, and _Douglas_... I would never, ever..."

"But you didn't know me," Douglas said. "When you got 'the job', you didn't know me."

"I-I didn't-"

"So, why, pray tell, am I still alive?"

A stern edge entered his tone, and Martin stiffened. Swallowing hard, Martin had no choice but to be honest. To lie anymore would be to bury himself even deeper in a hole that he should never have been digging in the first place. He wasn't an assassin – he was a _pilot, _for crying out loud.

"Because I... I like you," Martin admitted, staring all the while at the back of Douglas' head.

"You spend half your time telling me off for minor misdemeanours," Douglas muttered, after a moment that stretched for far too long.

"Then I must _really_ like you because even all of those things, which drive me up the wall, couldn't make me want to hurt you," Martin retorted, seizing that single flash of indignation and clinging onto it for dear life. When he received no answer, he trod slowly into the flight-deck... then further... then a few more steps and finally he was sitting in his seat, trailing his eyes over Douglas' cheeks as the other man started out at the airfield.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Douglas asked, and Martin swore he heard him croak.

"How _on Earth_ was I supposed to tell you?"

At that, Douglas finally looked at him. There was nothing on his face, save for the strained pain that had been there the night before, bereft this time of any fear. It seemed like enough, for now at least. Against his better judgement, Martin reached out – and Douglas didn't flinch. He barely moved at all as Martin laid his hand over his.

"I'm not doing it anymore," Martin told him, spurred on by the contact, like a rod connecting him to the ground. "I don't care about the money – I can't do it anymore."

"It was all about _money_," Douglas muttered, grimacing at the thought.

"Of course it was," Martin replied, "_Carolyn's_ not even paying me."

"What?"

At that, Douglas finally snapped out of his trance, too shocked it seemed to be afraid.

"That's why I'm Captain and not you," Martin explained. "So... really, you've won, haven't you?"

"I don't really feel like I've won anything," Douglas sighed. He pulled his hand free and sagged, slumping against his seat and looking out through the window again. This time, however, the strain was gone.

"No, I guess not," Martin agreed. "But still... It was only money, a-and now... I don't know. I thought I could justify it all, b-but I can't, b-because anyone, _everyone_ that I've ever hurt probably had someone who felt like I do... I couldn't do that to anyone else."

"What will you do?"

"I-I don't know," Martin shrugged and mirrored Douglas' position. "Get a night-job, work out of my dad's van – I don't know."

After a moment's silence, Martin remembered what had been nagging at him all morning. It seemed so unimportant now, but it had to be asked.

"Why didn't you call the police?"

"And tell them what?" Douglas snapped, glaring at him properly. "My co-pilot's a licensed killer?"

"There isn't any license."

"That's not the point," Douglas muttered. He shot Martin another odd glance, and frowned. "We've been trying to fill that seat for years now... you're the first one who's looked like he might stick."

"I want to stay," Martin said, biting his lip as he daren't hope.

Douglas didn't look at him again, but he didn't shout or cry either. He just stared at Martin's sleeve as if counting the stripes, and sighed.

"Then stay."

It was two days before they were back in Fitton. GERTI had been packed away due to upcoming storms, and Martin had offered to take care of the paperwork. Things had been strained, and even Arthur had picked up on it, but there had been no fights and nothing had been said... at all really. It was a surprise then, when Martin found Douglas leaning against the side of the rusted old hangar, arms folded, staring up at the sky. The sight filled him with a warm sort of fluttering that he hadn't felt in days.

"Martin..." Douglas groaned and rolled his eyes when Martin came to stand beside him, resting against the wall. "I have nothing to say to you right now."

"But when it's not right now anymore?" Martin replied, sneaking a sideways glance at him. He was pleased to hear a faint scoff, even though it was followed by a low growl.

"Don't push it."

"Douglas, I think we need to talk about this-"

Martin didn't have time to say what they needed to talk about, as the voice of another man, eerily familiar, rang out across the airfield.

"Oi! You there!"

"Who the hell is that?" Douglas muttered, looking up as he pushed away from the hangar and peered around in search of the source.

Dread, cold and slimy like oil, spread through Martin so quickly that he nearly choked. It was followed by confusion, anger, and a bewildered sense of desperation as he followed Douglas' every step, staring out across the airfield.

"I know that voice..."

"Stay right where you are!"

The second shout drew both of their attention to the man that was stride across the grass outside the porta-cabin, heading straight towards them. Tall, bony, dressed in an enormous coat in which his hand was buried – Martin didn't recognise him but he knew the voice, had been silently praying that he would never hear it again. Without thinking, he side-stepped towards Douglas, trying and failing to get in front of him.

"Hold on..." Douglas murmured as he pushed his hat more securely onto his head. There was no trace of fear or suspicion in his voice – only confusion at the stranger wandering around their airfield. "I know him. How do you..."

As Martin froze, his hand grasped Douglas' shoulder. Their eyes met and just like that, the truth made itself clear.

It was the same man that had hired Martin to kill him.

"Douglas, you need to get out of here," Martin muttered, lowering his voice even as he tried and failed to move his feet. He couldn't take his eyes off the man that was striding towards them. Douglas' wasn't moving either and it was making his heart race, his chest hitch as air refused to enter his lungs.

Once upon a time, Martin had laughed at the idea that his client could be anything more than a coward – now that thought terrified him.

"No, I don't," Douglas sneered, and with a burst of nonchalance that Martin _knew_ was false, he brushed Martin's hand from his shoulder and squared the both of them, hooking his thumbs in his pockets. Derision dripped from his tone and for a split-second, Martin could imagine exactly why his client had wanted him dead. "He's not even a real smuggler."

"And you _are_?" Martin retorted.

"No, I'm not," Douglas admitted with a roll of his eyes and a light-hearted shrug. "I swap little things. He thinks I underpaid him – or backed out of a deal. I'm not sure."

"Did you?"

"Well... yes," Douglas replied. "But he's not actually a threat."

"He hired a hitman to kill you!"

In the time that they had wasted, the man had come too close for them to get away. He stopped a few metres from them, hand still buried inside his coat pocket. Every inch of his attention was on Douglas as he sniffed against the cold and wiped his nose on the back of his free hand.

"Douglas Richardson."

"Stephen," Douglas replied with an unconcerned nod.

Stephen looked towards Martin.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Martin Crieff – you _hired_ me," Martin snapped, stirred into life by a flash of indignation. It wasn't as if he _should_ have known him, but _still_. It was insulting. It was so all-consuming that he almost didn't see Douglas roll his eyes.

"Oh - oh, I _see_," Stephen sneered, looking between the two of them. His face contorted with anger and his limbs stiffened, growing more angular as his temper flared. Whether he was aware that he had them backed up against the hangar was a mystery – it might not have mattered. "Got chummy did you? You were meant to be doing your job."

"Right, well, it was nice to sort this all out," Douglas interjected, clapping his hands together and taking a step to the side, away from the hangar, and away from Martin. "I'm afraid _you_, Stephen, are trespassing. If you could vacate the premises."

It was then that Stephen pulled a gun from his pocket.

Any coolness that Douglas possessed disappeared, and his hands rose slowly into the air. His eyes grew wide, the colour drained from his cheeks, and his throat bobbed as he stilled as best he could, never quite able to lose the sway in his stance. Head spinning, but oddly clear, brushed clean by panic, Martin moved to his side, never turning away from Stephen even for a second. The gun was scary, yes, but far smaller than any he had handled on a daily basis.

"Ah..." Douglas winced as Stephen's fingers tightened around the gun and the barrel centred over his chest. His voice cracked imperceptibly. "We've talked about the money, Stephen."

"I don't care about the money," Stephen snapped. "I don't need it anymore - the deadline passed, the bailiffs came."

"I wasn't going to transport illegal items for you."

"I spent every penny I had on that stock and it went to waste," Stephen continued, stepping closer and then stepping back, as is working out where best to fire from. "I was waiting for you to arrive for pick-up and you never came."

"No, well..." Douglas reasoned. "Surely this isn't the way to deal with things."

Stephen adjusted his grip, and something in Martin snapped.

"Hey – put the gun down!"

"You can zip it and all," Stephen muttered, waving the weapon towards him in a careless gesture before returning it to aim at Douglas. His focus wasn't complete, his stance wasn't confident, and he had yet to _do_ anything. He had probably never done anything like this in his life.

"N-no, I won't," Martin shot back, gritting his teeth as his nails dug into his palms. Taking a deep breath, he stepped ahead of Douglas.

"_Martin_-"

"Shut up, Douglas," Martin hissed. He took another step forwards, towards the other man who didn't seem to know what to do, and his confidence hardened, even as his lungs trembled against his ribcage. "Stephen was it? Put the gun away."

"Get out of my way or I'll have you too," Stephen didn't quite raise his voice, but it was clear that he wanted to.

"Put the gun down and get off this airfield," Martin instructed, and he _did_ raise his voice, gritting it out through his teeth as he tugged on his lapels and remembered that he was wearing a Captain's uniform. He was _technically_ in charge, and he didn't half feel like it.

"What did I just tell you?"

"You're not going to shoot anyone," Martin said.

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because you hired _me _to do it for you," Martin snapped, and he kept walking towards him, one step in front of the other. Indignation and fury burned in his chest as his knuckles clenched over and over again. "If you had the guts to kill anyone, you wouldn't be paying someone else to do it for you."

"Step back!" Stephen seemed to realise that Martin wasn't going to stop. "Get back!"

As Stephen pointed his gun, shaking more very second, Martin didn't even say a word. He snatched the gun straight out of his hands – his finger hadn't even been on the trigger – then he pulled his arm back and punched him, _hard_. The impact sent the other man careening towards the ground, and it sent shards of pain shooting through Martin's hand.

"Damn – Ow, bloody hell!"

In his haste to clutch his curled fist to his chest, to cradle the pain away, Martin almost dropped the gun. As he placed it on the ground, he saw Stephen scramble to his feet and scuttle away, fleeing across the airfield. The next second, Douglas was at Martin's side.

"Don't let him get away!"

"He doesn't matter, Martin," Douglas said, ignoring him as he placed a hand on his shoulder. He grimaced, still pale-faced, as he peered down at the hand pressed against the centre of Martin's chest. His own chest was heaving, but he sounded just as he always did, if not a little harried. "Are you alright?"

"No, I'm not," Martin squeaked, voice higher than he would have liked. He looked down at his hand, the knuckles already turning black. "I think I broke something – his face was _really_ hard."

They didn't say another word to one another until they had been through A&amp;E, and Martin's hand was wrapped in a cast of sorts. Now, sitting on the bed, waiting for the doctor to dismiss him, Martin was faced with an empty room and Douglas Richardson staring at him as if he had stolen his biscuits.

"Carolyn's going to murder me," Martin grumbled as he looked down at his hand. Anything was better than looking at the other man, even the numb sort of ache that spanned most of the limb.

"Be glad it's only a fracture," Douglas replied. Hands in pockets, he sauntered towards the bed and came to a stop just in front of it, giving Martin no choice but to look at him. The odd mood that had surrounded him over the course of the last few days was gone, and another one had taken its place.

"A pilot down," Martin continued. "She's going to hunt me down."

"Well, at least we know that you'll be able to defend yourself."

"I'm sorry..." Martin sighed as he met Douglas' gaze. He swallowed hard and forced himself not to give in to the misery that was welling at the base of his throat, begging for attention. "For everything, really, I am."

Douglas just shrugged, unusually subdued.

"It's not your fault."

"It is," Martin insisted, cheeks heating up from frustration as he rubbed the back of his unfractured thumb over his cast. "I should never have applied for MJN, not after that first day. I realised that I couldn't kill you, I should have walked away. I just..."

"You wanted to be a pilot," Douglas concluded for him.

Again, there was an odd sort of softness in his gaze as he looked down at him. It made Martin feel braver than he actually was... as did the painkillers they had given him.

"And... you know..." he said, "I wanted to get to know you better. Not for assassin reasons."

"Alright, I get the picture," Douglas replied, forcing a smile that was more of a grimace, and to Martin's relief, patting his shoulder. It was an end to a conversation neither of them wanted to have. "You shouldn't have taken such a risk back there."

"He wasn't _actually_ going to do anything."

"You couldn't know that," Douglas insisted, unusually uncertain. He even shuffled his feet when turning his hands over in his pockets didn't seem to do the trick, and glancing around the hospital room offered no answers. "I'm... grateful isn't quite the right word."

"Is this punishment enough?" Martin asked, lips twitching as he raised his injured hand.

"Fractured knuckles?" Douglas remarked. He took Martin's hand in his hand turned it as if to inspect the damage. "I should think so."

"Kiss it better?"

It had been a joke, and Martin regretted it the moment the words left his lips. Douglas dropped his hand as if it had been on fire.

Then he leaned forwards and pressed his Martin's, just for a second. There was no moment, nothing like before – there was warmth, his nose brushing his cheek as Martin startled, and the peculiar but not all unpleasant sight of Douglas leaning away.

"That's what I would have done if I hadn't found rifles in your car boot," Douglas said, as if it needed explaining. Given the slightly irritable edge to his tone, it probably did, although... he patted Martin's arm again, and didn't step back.

"Oh, right?" Martin stammered, blinking as his head span. It was a good kind of spinning, and nowhere near the sort of pressure that helped him to think clearly. "Well... thank you..."

"I may not do it again, all things considered," Douglas remarked, brow quirking as his expression softened. His stance was still defensive, he was still oddly quiet compared to his usual self, but there was far less tension in his shoulders than there had been before, and Martin was sure that the sternness in his eyes was the playful sort.

"There's no chance I might win you over?" Martin asked.

"Anything could happen," Douglas replied with a half-hearted shrug, but he ducked his head and Martin was sure that it was to hide the shadow of a smile that had danced across his lips for just a moment. "After all, who would have guessed that you of all people were a hired killer?"

"Not so loud!"

Martin glanced towards the door, where a nurse was passing, but she didn't stop. At the sound of Douglas' scoff, he slid from the bed and tugged his jacked more securely around his shoulders, fighting a smile as he plastered on a scowl.

"I'm sorry," Douglas said, when his own smile had faded. With a heaving exhale, his lips curled upwards into something more genuine than any Martin had seen before, and he swayed enough that when his elbow connected with Martin's, it could have been an accident. "Well... let's go and incur Carolyn's wrath."

Martin was about to say something about waiting for the doctor, but at the last moment, he clapped his mouth shut. He stared at Douglas, who was now occupied with the people out in the hall, and didn't seem to notice. All that he could think was that, Carolyn's impending wrath aside, he was bloody lucky he hadn't murdered him when he'd been told to.


End file.
